


the sky is turning black, i can't keep my food down

by nervousn8



Series: Found Family Amongst Gods [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Bad Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Broken Family, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Eventual Comfort, Memory Loss, Mild Blood, Post-Doomsday, Recovered Memories, Resurrection, Sad Ending, Sad Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sadness, Sick TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sleep Walking, Temporary Character Death, Unreliable Narrator, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wine Aunt Eret, and a lot of relationships are about to blow up, awesamdad, but for now, kind of, slow healing, theyre gonna kill people yall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervousn8/pseuds/nervousn8
Summary: Tommy's head is spinning, tilting him on an axis and dragging him down. He needs to say what he came to.He needs his broken family to listen before he goes.my God's AU doesn't really follow a set canon
Relationships: Eret & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Eret & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sam | Awesamdude & Toby Smith | Tubbo & Tommyinnit, Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: Found Family Amongst Gods [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094159
Comments: 139
Kudos: 1222
Collections: MCYT Fic Rec





	1. hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

> this was proofread and posted while quackity streamed jackbox  
> title from if i cleaned everything by teen suicide

* * *

“What was I supposed to do?” Tommy asks. Techno and Phil are stood in front of him, and Tommy can’t really remember how he got here. It’s snowing. It’s snowing, and he’s shivering, and he can’t remember how he got here. Everything is slightly off, tilted just so, ringing in his ears in that way it isn’t supposed to. How did he get here?

“Definitely not come find us, Toms.” says Phil, at the same time as Techno grunts some version of, “You’re not welcome here, Theseus.” 

Tommy doesn’t even know where _here_ is, does he? He does. Doesn’t he? Why is he here?

His head is all twisted, vision spinning like he’s rolling down a hill. Like he’s young. He feels like he did when he just woke up, when he was in Logsted, when the ocean would swallow him whole and threaten to never let him go. The ocean was so cold, winter chilled, liquid hands caressing the tears from his bruising, hollow cheeks. He’d been dreaming about home. Is that what happened this time?

Phil’s brow furrows, and he takes a small step forward. “Son? You alright?”

“Go inside,” Techno says to Phil, stepping forward with him and in front, “make sure Ranboo is alright.”

Ranboo. Ranboo? They’d replaced him, hadn’t they? Tommy wants to laugh, but his mouth isn’t answering the call. He just watches Phil, watches him hesitate, watches him leave. They always leave. Tommy was never meant to have much, anyway.

He can’t remember why he’d come here. It- feels almost like revenge, to be stood here when he knows he isn’t supposed to be. To stand before the snowy cottage, before _Techno,_ a place and person who offered him shelter when he needed it most. It feels like a death wish, like a plea, to be standing here in the snow when he knows how much Techno hates him. There’s no temporary alliance to keep him safe, now.

_That’s it._ That’s why he’d come. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Tommy,” Techno says, hand not even on his sword. That’s not what Tommy wants. He came here to say his piece. He came here to die. “How’d you even find your way back here?”

His unconscious mind thought this place was home. In a last-ditch effort, his sleeping brain had tried to take him home. To make him safe. He’d doomed himself without even trying. “I came to talk to you.” He says instead, because that’s easier than explaining. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Technoblade says, and he turns like that’s the end of the conversation.

“What was I supposed to do?” Tommy asks again, and even though Techno keeps walking, he knows the Blood God can hear him. Now that Tommy knows _why_ he’s asking the question, tears clog his throat. “You were going to leave me behind again, or kick me out, or give me to Dream. What was I supposed to do?”

Techno stops now, turning back to him in the snow. It’s still snowing.

“What’re you talkin’ about, Tommy?” His once-friend asks, cape billowing in the wind. 

Tommy does laugh this time, even though his lungs feel scraped bare, the chilling air drying him out from the inside. “You forgot? You- of course you forgot. I don’t know why I- thought you’d remember.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Techno asks, a half-snarl, and Tommy laughs again. He coughs this time, and when he pulls his elbow away, there’s blood on the sleeve.

“What’s- you kept saying- Techno, you kept saying- I was just a problem, a nuisance. You kept me here because Phil- he claimed me even though he doesn’t love me anymore, and- and you said- you- I-” The stuttering isn’t new, the struggle with words only helped by the chill. His brain is still sleep-fogged, still dancing in a slow circle to the mournful lament of a piano. “You and Phil- you left. And you didn’t come back until Wilbur- he- and now-”

It all slows, as though the pianist has grown insecure with broken-off keys, and the melody tapers off into nothing. Tommy waits for it, waits for the piano to start up again, but it remains silent. Heavy.

If Tommy were into wishful thinking -and he’s _not-_ he’d think Techno looks almost concerned for him. The Blood God has started walking back over, steps slow. His hand still isn’t on his sword. Tommy can see Phil again, now, too, jogging back over to join his favorite. 

Why couldn’t he have loved Tommy that much?

“I kept- I waited for you to. Come back. You didn’t- and I waited- but- and then-” He breaks off to cough again, wheezing passed the sudden heaviness in his lungs, blinking as more blood gathers in his elbow. He licks his teeth, but he can’t taste anything weird. It’s all the same. Where’s the blood coming from? “You were just gonna- leave again, Techno. So I, well- if I left first, you couldn’t.”

That’s what he came to say. He’s- he’s really tired, now, so he sits down in the snow. And he can’t feel it, but that’s okay. He said what he needed to, so the melody should start again. Tommy’s waiting for everything to be fixed like it’s supposed to be. 

The song does not resume. The pianist has gotten up and moved away, looking back with tears in their eyes. There are too many broken keys to keep going. The melody will remain undone. 

The symphony unfinished.

It was never meant to be.

“Tommy,” Phil says, and, _oh,_ when had Phil gotten so close? “Toms, you’re sick. Where’s Tubbo, is he with you?”

Tubbo? No, no Tubbo. Not anymore.

The sky is moving, tilting with him as he’s picked up, and he forgot how warm Techno was. He wishes he could feel it, wishes he wasn’t so tired. He isn’t even cold anymore.

“I buried Tubbo,” Tommy murmurs. The song is in his head again, now, but it’s different. It sounds like Wilbur, this time. Back before the wars, before Phil and Techno left. _That’s_ home.

“Tubbo’s dead?” Someone new asks, and when Tommy tilts his head, Ranboo is there, too. He looks sad. 

“Dream didn’t- he was mad,” Tommy says, and he coughs once more as sharp hands carve his lungs to smithereens, but he can’t bring his elbow up this time. He gets blood all over Techno’s coat. He’s sorry about that. “So he- he made me watch. Don’t- I- don’t like Dream.”

They’re talking above him, Techno and Phil whispering back and forth, talking about him. He remembers being in here, at this table, eating dinner whenever Techno made it. He always made good food, even if it was potatoes. Tommy can’t remember the last time he ate.

“No- _no, please-”_ Phil is trying to pry the small golden chain out of his clenched, cold fingers. Tommy needs that- needs it because when the people are gone- “Dad- _Dad,_ no. No, I- I need it. What am I- when you both leave- what do I- I _need it,_ Phil-”

He coughs hard this time, the force of it pulling him in, twisting him up inside. The melody is so loud, cascading down from his hairline and into his very bones. Black spots twirl around his eyes and land, taking with them what little remains of his vision. 

“We’re not going anywhere- Tommy! Tommy!” Phil is shouting at him, he thinks, but Tommy didn’t mean to make him mad. He can still leave, it’s okay. As soon as everything stops spinning and he can see again, he’ll go back to-

somewhere. He’ll go somewhere. He’ll go. Won’t he?

“Why didn’t you say you were bleeding?” Techno snarls, voice molten. Angry. Why are they both angry with him? Tommy didn’t even know he was bleeding. “Tommy- _Tommy!_ Why didn’t you say anything?”

Why didn’t he? He didn’t know. Did he know? He doesn’t think he did. He remembers, just on the edges of a dream, that Dream had been mad at him. Dream had a sword, and the sword was red where it wasn’t supposed to be-

Oh. He does remember. 

“Sorry,” Tommy whispers, because they’re angry, and they shouldn’t be. He’d made them angry. 

It’s not cold in here. It’s safe, soft, taking him in warm arms and holding him steady as he heaves. Phil is there as his vision clears, pushing Tommy’s hair back from his sweaty forehead and smiling. He thinks Techno might be behind him, maybe. He doesn’t know where Ranboo went.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Toms,” Phil whispers. “You gotta keep talking to me right now, though, okay? Why’d you come out here, mate?”

Tommy came out here to- talk. He thinks. He needed them to know. Because Techno had said that he was a person, not a weapon, and Tommy needed him to know that he knew that. He needed him to know that he wasn’t a bad person. _Tommy’s not a bad person._

“I. Missed you,” his mouth stutters instead, and traitorous tears leak like fire out of his eyes. The rawness in his lungs doesn’t mix well, and he coughs blood all over Phil’s sleeve. “M’ not bad, I promise. I didn’t- not a traitor.”

“You betrayed me, Tommy,” Techno says from behind him, and Tommy chokes on a sob. His weak, muttered denials are lost to the clanking of glass behind him. 

“You said-” Tommy tries, but his head is all warm and foggy. His vision is going again, but this time it’s white. “Temporary alliance. The- favor. You were- gonna give me back. So. So-”

He stops clenching his fingers because he has to focus his energy on remembering to breathe, and the gold chain clatters to the floor. Phil stoops to pick it up, and when he stands, Techno makes a soft noise behind Tommy’s back. The friendship emerald, kept safely in the matching earring Techno had made, gleams in the light of the lanterns.

Tommy can’t see much of it, just a blurry green sheen in the all-encompassing white, but he reaches weakly for it anyway. Phil sets it carefully in his hands, curling Tommy’s fist shut and holding it in his own.

“Why didn’t you come back?” It’s cracking, splintered and quiet as the words barely leave Tommy’s mouth. “I waited.”

They don’t answer him. It’s silent except for the ringing in his ears, drowning out the sound of someone else’s tears. He can’t feel Phil's fingers on his own anymore. 

Wilbur’s symphony crescendos, wrapping him in warm arms and calling him home. 

The keys are still broken, the piano’s melody undone. Unfinished. 

This, in the end, was always meant to be.

* * *


	2. i never knew what i meant to you, but that's okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara takes them away from that world, and she brings them somewhere safe.
> 
> Somewhere new.
> 
> They leave behind a procession of grief, of rage, bathed in bloodlust and a broken boy's dying breath.

* * *

“Hello,” the large woman in the astronaut suit says, cradling him in her palm. She and her starry eyes are all he has ever known. Her name is Clara. “You’re called Tommy.”

His name is Tommy; that makes sense. Tommy fits him like a glove, wrapping him up and keeping him warm. Clara smiles down at him, round cheeks pulling upwards. Tommy smiles back at her, filled with a giddy kind of excitement he’s never felt before. He’s only been in existence for a few moments, after all.

Clara’s smile falls just a bit, and Tommy’s goes with it, but then she shakes her head and pulls up her other hand. Tommy watches in awe as the planets sway with her movements. She opens her other hand, and in her palm rests another boy. 

“This is Tubbo,” Clara says, and even though her large eyes are sad, her smile is genuine. “You two are best friends.”

This, too, makes sense. Tommy leans over the edge of Clara’s palm to peer down into her other one, finding Tubbo staring at him with wide eyes. He grins down at him, and the other boy’s face splits into a matching grin.

“Hi!” Tubbo says, jumping to his feet and leaning on Clara’s right hand to be eye-level with Tommy. “I missed you!”

Tommy missed him, too. Tubbo is his best friend, and even though he’s only known this for less than a minute, he knows it’s the truth. Just as he knows his name is Tommy, just as he knows Clara is all good things rolled into one. “You’re so clingy, Big T.”

Clara laughs, soft and wet, and she tilts her right hand to send Tommy tumbling into her left. Tubbo tries to catch him, but they crumble into a laughing pile regardless of his attempts. They roll, giggling to themselves as they wrestle, but they separate when Clara clears her throat. She stares down at them in thinly veiled adoration, and Tommy frowns when she wipes a glowing tear from her eye.

“Boys, I need you both to listen carefully,” she starts, lifting them up closer to her face so they don’t have to crane their necks as badly. “You know you’re both Gods, yes?”

Tommy didn’t really know that, but he also did. It explains why he’s able to be here, breathing freely amongst the stars and the planets. Tubbo nods, and Tommy hurries to do the same.

“I need you both to understand this, as it’s very important. You’re a pair. As best friends, I deemed it necessary you both compliment and contrast each other. Tubbo, you, my dear, are the God of Peace. Not specifically peace in relation to war, but in general. The kind of peace you might feel when you’re relaxing, or being held by someone you love.”

“Like right now?” Tubbo asks, wide-eyed and innocent, and Clara’s deep laughter rings in the nonexistent air. Somewhere nearby, a star is born. Her smile is soft, and she gently rubs a knuckle across the top of Tubbo’s head.

“If you feel safe with me, then yes, little one.” She turns her eyes to Tommy then, and he nearly bounces on his toes in anticipation. “You, my Starchild, are meant to be the God of Discord. No, dear, don’t frown at me like that. While discord is what you are underneath, it is not all you have to be. You enjoy pranks, yes?”

Tommy doesn’t know how he knows what pranks are, but they feel like they’re a part of him. He nods vigorously, clasping the hem of his shirt in his hands to keep from fidgeting. 

“Good. You’re a Trickster God, per se. You’re capable of discord, just as Tubbo is capable of peace in war, but it is not entirely what you are meant for. Just because it is your name, doesn’t mean it is your nature.” Clara rubs a knuckle on the top of Tommy’s head as well, and the grin he gives her is blinding. “I have one more thing to show you before I set you off on your way.”

Her left hand stays in place as she twists her body around, and no matter how hard Tommy and Tubbo lean over to see what she’s doing, they can’t parse anything from around her spacesuit. She turns back to them, and sitting in her right hand is another brown-haired boy. He’s taller than Tommy and Tubbo, and he looks older. There’s a guitar in his hand -although Tommy doesn’t quite know how he knows what a guitar is- and a beanie on his head. 

“This is Wilbur. He’s the God of Music, and also Tommy’s brother.” Clara tells them, her eyes sad all over again. She puts her hands together, forming a small bowl, and allowing the three to meet.

There’s an air of warmth to Wilbur, familiar, radiating much the same as Tubbo’s does. He’s Tommy’s brother, so that makes sense. There’s something wriggling in the back of his head, something that puts ash on his tongue, but the grin Wilbur sends him wipes it all away. He launches himself at the taller man, laughing when Wilbur drops his guitar to swing him around. 

“Do I have a brother?” Tubbo asks, blinking up at Clara as Wilbur and Tommy push each other around. She smiles down at him, light dancing on her lower eyelids in the form of tears. Tubbo doesn’t understand why she seems so sad, but he doesn’t push it.

“Sort of,” Clara answers, “You have someone who cares deeply for you. Should you ever find them, I promise you’ll know. But you also have Wilbur and Tommy, and they’re just as good as family, too.”

And they are, as they pull Tubbo into their hug. It devolves into play-fighting yet again, and Wilbur leans against Clara’s fingers to look at her face. 

“Where are you going to put us?” he asks.

“That depends,” Clara murmurs, voice rolling around them like waves. “Where would you like to go?”

Tommy leans over her left thumb, pointing at a blue and green planet a few lightyears away. “What about that one?” 

There’s a pause as Clara turns her body, twisting slowly in the empty vacuum of space, and her face falls when her gaze settles on the planet. “Maybe not there, Starchild. I think you all should go somewhere else.” A heaviness settles for just a moment in her eyes, but it’s gone the next time she blinks. “I have an idea, actually! Tell me what you all think of this one over here.”

She takes them away, floating through the expanse of space, passing by star systems and nebulae alike in an effort to put distance between her three newest Gods and that planet. That doomed, bleeding planet.

The very same planet that killed them all. The planet she’d crafted for the Chaos God, the first Trickster. Her corrupted, broken little boy.

\-----------------------

The trek to Snowchester is long, and it is somber. 

Ranboo makes soft, mournful noises, bundled tightly in a dark cloak Phil had made for him. They’re making the walk to where Tubbo is buried, but only because they all know Tommy would want to be buried by his side. 

They’d waited a few days, Techno and Phil. They’d waited because it had hurt to move him, to unwrap him from all the blankets and face the damage that had been dealt. It’d been easier to be angry at each other and at Dream- easier to remain hopeful that the Totem they’d pressed into Tommy’s cold, stiff hand alongside the friendship emerald would be enough. Quietly, Phil’s magic kept him from decomposing.

It’d been Phil that came to terms with it first. That’s what the arguments had been about, that’s what had driven Ranboo out of the cottage and back into the small shed he normally stored his things in. 

_ “He’s gone, mate,” Phil had murmured, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the tears. “He’s- we need to bury him.” _

_ “We need to wait!” Techno shouted back, rage a familiar fire in place of grief. “We have to give him time. Tommy’s stubborn, we just need to let the Totem do its thing.” _

_ “It’s been three days…” _

_ “I don’t care!” _

The Blood God had always fallen easily onto anger, warping his hurt into hot magma that burnt everything it touched. It left him guarded, kept him on edge, made sure he’d be ready when something changed.

He hadn’t slept, sitting up beside Phil’s mortal day in and day out, waiting for the shower of sparks that meant the Totem had worked. He still needed to hash it out with Tommy. He still needed the boy to understand what he’d done wrong. That he could be forgiven. 

But Phil, The God of Death, had won out in the end. Tommy was his mortal, his  _ son, _ and he didn’t need the powers that came with being the Death God to know that Tommy’s soul wasn’t coming back. He had never been the best father, and this was a guilt he would carry with him for the rest of his eternity, but he knew what death felt like on his son’s skin. He’d lost both of them, now.

So the procession continues, Tommy’s body bundled in an old Arctic Empire flag, stitched mostly closed to hide him from the world. Techno carries him in his arms, jaw clenched, eyes forward. They avoid L’Manburg to the best of their abilities, but they come across Ghostbur anyway. Eret is with him, and the two of them pause their animated conversation to watch the procession go by.

“Phil! Techno! Ranboo! Hi!” Ghostbur calls, floating over with a grin. Eret follows a few feet back, face already falling to something sad. Morbid. They’re far more perceptive than the aloof ghost, and they recognize the telltale signs of a funeral march. Ghostbur, unaware, stops in front of them. “What’re you guys doing?”

Phil hesitates, reaching out to take the ghost’s hand. He keeps his voice gentle even as the very words rip him to shreds. “We’re going to bury Tommy, Ghostbur.”

It’s like watching a leaf fall off of a tree, the way Ghostbur processes bad news. It happens slowly, spurred on by the wind, pushing on the petiole until it snaps from the stem, and then the leaf begins its descent. The leaf goes slowly at first, beginning to find its way down, and then it spins out of control. Somehow it still looks soft, coming to rest at the base of the tree trunk or across the path.

Ghostbur’s face crumbles, and golden tears swell in his eyes. “You’re lying. I don’t believe you,” he says, sniffling wetly, crushing rapidly darkening blue in his hands. He shakes his head, feet coming to touch the ground with a thud.

Phil moves back to open the flag, to prove it, but Techno just pulls Tommy closer. There isn’t much Phil can do, not really, against eight and a half feet of grief-riddled, seething pig beast. He lets Techno come to terms with it on his own, and very slowly, after Tommy has been sufficiently lowered, does Phil unfold the flag away from his face.

The shriek Ghostbur releases is bloodcurdling, and whatever plans they had of making it past L’Manburg and the surrounding areas undetected are tarnished. 

Phil covers Tommy’s face before anyone else can see, and their funeral procession grows by two more.

“I’m sorry,” Eret offers, voice a soft timbre against the collective sounds of their feet. “He was- I’m sorry.”

“We’re going to bury him with Tubbo.” Is Phil’s soft reply, and the noise Eret makes sounds like they’ve been punched.

“Tubbo’s dead?” Someone else asks, voice shaky, and their party grows by one more. Puffy joins them, tears in her eyes, a trembling to her lips they’ve never seen before. She catches sight of the body in Techno’s arms, and her tears begin to fall. “Is that-”

No one answers, not for a long time, until Ranboo finally manages to force out a reply. “It’s Tommy. He- uh- he buried Tubbo in Snowchester. And then he came to us, and he- well. We couldn’t save him.”

“Was it Jack?” Eret asks, tugging their shades from their face and fiddling with them instead. “Or was it Niki? I heard them plotting to kill Tommy together yesterday. They might have-”

“It was Dream,” Techno snarls, the noise coming from the back of his throat. He’s bloodthirsty, and his head feels as though it’s going to split open from the way the voices are screaming hundreds of different things. “Dream killed them both.”

It’s unspoken, the vow that passes between them all. Dream is a God, and this is his world, but he is not the only God. There is still Phil, and Techno, and Eret. He will face reckoning with each of them.

They’re nearly there, passing over the final bridge, when they spot four more people. Fundy stands with Quackity on one side, while Niki and Jack stand on the other. Their conversation comes to a close much like Ghostbur’s and Eret’s had.

“We can’t find Tubbo-” Jack starts, though he stops when he catches sight of Eret’s eyes. Phil, the very man who had returned Jack’s lives to him, aids in that silence.

“Good news, Jack. Niki,” Eret says, their voice missing the warmth it so often carries. They spread their arms wide, and their smile is cruel. “You can put your dreams of murdering a traumatized child to rest! Dream did it for you.”

“We weren’t going to-” Niki starts, but Eret cuts her off.

“You were. Tommy gave his life in an effort to save Tubbo’s. You know, he’d been trying to change. He forgave me for my betrayal, and I cost him his first life. He was going to apologize to everyone for the things he’d done- which is funny, considering neither of you would have ever apologized for everything you’ve done to him.”

Eret is angry, bitter, and they are a God. They speak for the unspoken, unearth truths that wish to remain hidden. And they are  _ furious, _ drowning in the fact that not one, but  _ two _ children were murdered because a God  _ felt like it. _

“Fundy, Quackity,” Phil addresses, feeling oddly numb for how impassioned the person beside him is. “You’re both welcome to come. If you’d like. We’re going to have a funeral for Tubbo as well. Niki, Jack, if you don’t get out of my sight in the next twenty seconds, I will kill you.”

“Phil-”

“Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen-”

The two unwelcome guests skirt around the edges of their procession, and Phil keeps his back to them as he continues counting down. They all begin moving, their party of eight and a corpse, into the ruins of Snowchester. 

“I’d have killed them regardless,” The Blood God growls, jaw tense as he resists the urge to do just that.

“Bold of you to assume I still won’t.”

Growing attached to mortals is taboo amongst Gods. 

They grow old while you don’t, and they die while you don’t.

This is the story that every God who allows themself this weakness must live through. When it is chosen, those involved prepare themselves for the inevitable. When the story comes to a close, they must bury their mortal. This is the story that all Gods know, one of the few cautionary tales instilled in them when they are young, but it does little to prepare them for what it actually feels like to lose their mortal.

Unlike Phil, Techno never prepared. Eret never prepared. Growing attached to a mortal was never in their plans. They laid no claims, made obvious no weakness, and still, they are here with Phil. They are uncovering one body to properly bury two.

Two children. Two mortal children.

Technoblade, the fearsome Blood God, had known Tommy since he was small. He’d stared down at his pale, round face and expected fear, and was instead given the most blinding smile he’d ever seen on a child. A voice much too loud for a creature so tiny had told Techno how cool he was, how awesome they’d be in a fight together. Blue eyes had proclaimed with vigor that The Blood God was his favorite.

It stung when Tommy went against what Techno wanted. It stung to be abandoned and used when the boy in his youth had loved him wholeheartedly. It stings more to know that they will never come back from this, that they will never talk it out. Their grievances will remain lost in Tommy’s garbled, final sentence. 

There will be no closure.

Eret, on their part, knew their quiet fondness for the younger members of L’Manburg was going to ruin them. They’d assumed they’d have more time, in the end. Betraying Tubbo and Tommy because of Dream is something Eret will never be proud of, and the fact that both boys managed to forgive them before they were murdered is enough fuel for Eret’s fire. They’d have avenged the boys anyway. 

Tubbo, though he’d done it without words, forgave Eret long ago. They’d been friends, and even though they hadn’t been all that involved in Tubbo’s plans, Eret had still observed. They’d still been fond, and they’d found that the fondness wasn’t going to go away. 

But they’d all thought there’d be more time. Children should not die so young. 

In the midst of the obviously blown up ruins of Snowchester, there is a poorly made wooden sign. The words scratched into it are bordered by bloody fingerprints, but it serves as the marker it’s meant to. 

Were the situation not so morbid, finding Tubbo buried in the L’Manburg flag could be a funny coincidence. All it does is make Ghostbur cry, and with him go Fundy and Puffy and Ranboo and Phil. Quackity does most of the digging to make Tubbo’s grave fit for two, and he makes no comment about the fact that Technoblade has yet to set Tommy’s body down. Eret alternates between digging and simply sitting with Puffy at Tubbo’s side.

No one really says anything. No words are spoken, no sounds are made save for the quiet noises of distress that bubble unwillingly from Ranboo’s mouth, and the muted weeping that leaves Puffy, Fundy, and Ghostbur. 

They bury them, two mortal boys with too much to live for, side by side and six feet down. They twine both flags around them, resting them against each other, and then one by one they shovel in dirt.

Techno pockets Tommy’s emerald. Quackity watches, face set into a frown, but he makes no comment. 

They have a common enemy, now.

The grave is covered, and a new sign is placed, and they observe the final chapter of this story in silence. 

Ghostbur, with nothing more than a muffled sob, disappears in a gust of wind.

Seven people remain, three Gods and four hybrids, and the universe mourns with them.

It is only when grief turns to anger that they move on.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this literally went CHOO CHOO and got so out of hand. do i know how many parts this will be? no. no i do not. but i do know that this is the first multi-chapter part of this series, and a decent amount of canon will be established in it. the canon of this doesn't entirely apply to the other parts of this series, but it do be related at the very least
> 
> also fun fact, the person i have read these before i post them isn't in the dsmp fandom at all, so when she comes back and tells me i made her have Feelings i know I've done well
> 
> the title for chapter one comes from the mountain goats' "no children" and the title for this chapter comes from dearly somber's "hey old friend". i feel like this chapter's title works both ways for techno and tommy. while this is not always written from their points of view, they are my favorites and this entire series was inspired by the two of them and how much i wish they'd MAKE UP AND BE FAMILY the end
> 
> i don't know why, but the idea that clara's open fondness for tommy is one of the big reasons dream doesn't like him has been sitting with me for ages, and i can't get rid of it. thus, it is being minorly incorporated


	3. the silence has torn me to shreds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara has never felt rage like this before. It ripples along the surface, creating cavities as she stares down at the face of a failed father.
> 
> "There is no excuse for what you've done," she tells Philza. "You're a failure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from svavar knútar's emotional anorexic

* * *

“He was just a boy,” Puffy says, voice soft, strained. 

“He was a problem- he made everything worse,” Niki answers, blood on her lips, in her hair. 

Puffy breathes a quiet sigh, frown sliding off her face until there’s nothing there. “He was a child, my love. He needed to learn, but not through death.”

They’re quiet, the two of them. In this field beneath the stars, bathed in the fiery remains of Technoblade’s fury, two lovers bid each other goodbye. They are on opposite sides.

“You treated Dream like he was a child,” Niki hisses, digging in places it will hurt. And it does hurt, cutting Puffy deep, the reminder of all she’d been blind to ripping her heart to shreds.

“I know I did,” she murmurs, crouching to be eye level with where Niki is pinned to the ground. There is the sound of wings in the distance. “He needed someone to love him unconditionally, but it wasn’t enough. He was too far gone. Tommy still had room to learn.”

“They’re the same.”

Puffy stands when Philza thumps to the ground beside her, his large wings extinguishing the flames around them. Jack’s head rolls to a stop against Niki’s thigh. Aside from the sounds of battle in the distance, the field is silent. 

“You don’t have to stay here for this,” Phil says, voice too hard to be kind, but Puffy appreciates the offered mercy. 

She stays for a few moments more, just staring into the eyes of the woman she’d gifted her heart to, and then she smiles. “They were never the same, Niki. Because Tommy loved so fiercely it got him killed. And if not even love could keep him safe, there’s no hope for you.”

Puffy’s communicator pings when she’s almost made it across the field, but she already knows what it says. She doesn’t need to look to know the message that awaits her. 

The bloody promise ring in her hands makes a soft noise when she drops it into the river, and her heart goes cold. Tonight is the night the world burns.

\-----

Sapnap and George discard the claims Dream had placed on them. That’s how they draw him out, in the end. They shake off the tight red strings that wrapped them in warmth, step out of the blistering heat that came when Dream’s love had been pushed away in favor of control. The strings have stopped being a sign that he would come home, and instead became a sign that he would never leave.

They were chained to him, and they had the keys. Wishful thinking had made them wait, and hope, and some days even pray, that he would go back to how he was.

But he never did.

“You  _ can’t.” _ Dream snarls, the limp red thread clutched in his shaking hands. “You’re  _ mine.” _

“We’re not. Not anymore,” George’s words are soft, but the sword in his hand gleams. 

The Chaos God is floundering, the turmoil visible in his tense, hunched shoulders. Everyone is against him now. Were it everyone  _ except _ his mortals, he would be fine. Even if they hated him, they were still his. His world, his mortals, his chaos. They’d ruined all of it.

“You’ll regret this.” It’s snarled, spat from a place of hateful hurt, and the ground rumbles with it. Three Gods and countless mortals against one God, but they are on his turf. He makes the rules.

A shadow, large and dark, pulls the very stars from the sky. The clouds part for it, the sun and moon scatter farther from their corners of the sky. The very air grows tense as large, heavy metal boots appear from the shadowed fog, and then it dissipates. 

“Dream,” Clara murmurs, bathed in dying stars. “I am so disappointed in you.”

The feeling that comes with this statement isn’t exactly betrayal. There is no denying that it is there, sharp beneath the surface of Dream’s skin, pushing pinpricks into his lungs. Dread lingers as well, washing liquid ice through his veins, and shock piles on top of that. The silence that falls in his head is eerie and dreadful, and not even the dying warmth of the claims tangled in his shaking fingers could change that.

“And I wish I hadn’t let you become this.”

Clara, Goddess of Space and Time, proxy of Alex -The Mother- has always taken her duty seriously. Each God or Goddess she breathes to life amidst the stars is another piece of her very soul, and they all take a piece of her heart with them when they go off on their way. 

Dream, the Chaos God, and her first Trickster, was no exception. In fact, her guilty conscience admits that she may have loved him most. She’s always had such a fondness for fiery spirits, those with a penchant for a special kind of fun, and Dream was all of those things and more. He’d lingered longer than most of the new Gods, and even after he’d gone, he never stayed away. Every little thing he’d done, every accomplishment, every tear-stained failure, was brought before her eyes as he found home in her arms.

She met his mortals, and though he no longer really needed her love now that he had theirs, he still came back for it. She gave it willingly, each and every time, without question. He’d always been her little boy, her Spitfire, and he always would be.

But after Philza -and Technoblade, to some extent, though Clara doubts he’d even been aware of the unconscious claims he shared with Phil- had introduced his mortals to her, Dream had begun to change. Childish jealousy colored in green when she spoke of Wilbur’s accomplishments, but the  _ envy _ he displayed when she spoke of Tommy-

She should have known. Those first few interactions should have told her all she needed to know, but she wanted to be naive. She made herself such, and in doing so, children died. Mortals she’d been all too fond of died by the Chaos God’s hand.

Clara wants to be mad at him, wants to hate him, to shout horrible things, but she can’t. Dream has always been his own person, and he has always been capable of going down this path. Chaos is not all pranks and light-hearted humor, after all. She just wishes he’d never become what he is now. 

“I gave you this world, Dream, crafted it from a galaxy gone up in flames, and this is what you do with it? This is what you do with my gift?” 

“This- it’s  _ my _ world!” Dream shouts, anger making his voice break. He drops the red thread that no one else can even see and steps on it, squishing the last bits of warmth from within. “I can do whatever I want here!”

Clara shrinks as she walks toward him, though when she comes to a stop, she’s still a head taller than he is. She can’t get much smaller than this. “Why did you choose to be cruel?”

He has no answer, the fire inside him simultaneously flaring up and dying out. He stares up into her face, tracing the speckled stars on her dark cheeks with his eyes, and he sighs. 

“You liked them more. Everyone did. But it- it’s not their world. It’s  _ mine. _ Everything here is mine, and they tried to take it from me.” He pauses, grinding his jaw. “They took  _ you _ from me.”

They’re surrounded on all sides, angry Gods and mortals alike brandishing weapons. The ground is wet with bloody dirt, swirled together into morbid mud. Flames dance on the horizon and holes from explosions litter the ground. The sky is starless, and the moon and sun are still gone. They know what’s coming, and they do not want to witness it.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Clara murmurs, reaching out a gloved hand to nudge Dream’s mask out of the way, and then cupping the side of his head. He leans into it, and she studies his face. He has new scars, now, ones that had been absent from the round baby face she’d spent so long laughing with. She catches a lone tear with her thumb as it makes its way down his cheek. “That justifies nothing.”

He reaches up to grab her wrist, and she grabs his own with her other hand. He can’t get away from her no matter how hard he tries, and though tears sting her eyes at the sight of his fear, she holds on.

“I cannot excuse what you did, Dream. The lives you took that were never yours to take, the abuse you caused. The manipulation. You were needlessly cruel to those who did not deserve it. If you wanted your world to yourself, you needed only ask, and I’d have removed those you didn’t want here. Everyone that is here is so because you asked it of me. You requested real lives be placed into your hands for the sole purpose of ruining them.  _ I cannot excuse that.” _

“Stop!” Dream cries, and Clara swallows heavily. “You  _ can’t!  _ What about the rules? The rules!”

The Old Rules. They’d been made so long ago, far before humans evolved. Far before the Gods began evolving with them. Clara stopped caring for them a long,  _ long  _ time ago, and she definitely isn’t going to start now. Not when the only reason Dream has ever cared for the Old Rules was when they benefited him. 

She wipes away another one of his tears and smiles gently, but then she focuses all of her energy on dispersing his own. It could take him up to a millennium to reform, collecting each piece of himself in an effort to rebuild his corporeal body. He can sense it, too, and he starts thrashing against her hold as cracks of golden light splinter down his limbs.

“You’ve never cared for the rules, Spitfire,” Clara whispers to him. “Don’t pretend to start now.”

His form explodes into a shower of sparks, scattering with the wind as it blows. Some of him mingles with the embers that flutter around the fires, others head straight for the cosmos, but Clara keeps a small piece for herself. The final piece. He’ll have to come to her before he can reform, and though it breaks her heart, she knows this is how it has to be.

Dream’s world is in shambles, now. Splintered, corrupted from the inside out. Clara turns in a slow circle and observes it, looking past the people gathered around her. She ignores their exclamations of surprise and outrage until she is finished with her turn, and when she settles, Technoblade approaches. His steps are angry, meant to intimidate, but she created him from the very stars. He could never scare her.

She speaks before he can, stepping forward and allowing herself to grow to his height. Her smile is twisted, and the anger she couldn’t bring herself to feel for Dream jumps forth at the sight of her ages-old Blood God. Death moves to intercept, and her anger grows.

“You are both failures,” she hisses, delighting in the way they both stop. “I have never been so disappointed in either of you, and I have witnessed each of your failures first hand. What you did here- I will never forgive you. You don’t even  _ deserve _ the satisfaction of killing Dream. You were just as bad.”

“He killed my sons-” Phil starts, wings puffed up in defiance, and Clara can’t help the laugh that explodes harshly from her chest. 

_ “Your sons’?” _ Clara asks, golden tears swelling in her eyes and beginning to slip down her cheeks. “You are a  _ joke _ of a father. What kind of father abandons his children to travel the worlds with his best friend? How many gestures of grandeur did they make as an unsuccessful attempt to get your attention?”

“I-”

She continues undeterred, pulsing rage beginning to pull the very stars from the sky. “How many letters did they write to you that you brushed off and ignored? How many times did they ask for your help?  _ Technoblade _ came to their aid first, and he’d tricked himself into believing they meant nothing to him. What does that say about you, Philza? You didn’t even  _ try _ to save Wilbur. He asked for death and you granted it, and then blamed that decision you made on a country run by a child.”

“But,  _ oh, _ it doesn’t even stop there? Does it?” Her rant continues, echoing off the rolling hills, punctuated by falling stars. “You remained, unbothered and uncaring, when your only remaining son was exiled. How many times did you visit him in those months he was there? You left him with the ghost of the brother who had verbally abused him down in that ravine, and you left him with Dream. It, once again, was  _ Technoblade _ who ultimately saved his life after Tommy nearly took it himself.”

“If you knew so much, why didn’t you interfere?” Techno accuses, face twisted in both hurt and rage. 

“I did. Who do you think was on the top of that tower with him?”

It’s silent for a moment, and Clara feels glowing eyes on the back of her head. She turns to Eret, her beautiful God of Preservation, and she smiles. “Don’t worry too much, my dear. I could take you to him if you’d like. You and Peace would get along really well, I think.”

“Thank you,” Eret says, but they glance at the small fox hybrid beside them, and their smile grows minutely softer. “Not yet, though. I have someone here I’d like to stay for.”

“You remade them?” Phil asks, voice choked, and Clara’s rage returns. “Take us there.”

She turns back to him, to the guarded hope in both of their eyes, and she frowns. “No. Absolutely not. You teamed up with the man who abused your sons, Phil, all because that was what Techno wanted. I don’t care if you didn’t know. Regardless, you still chose to destroy the country your youngest son gave most of his lives for because Techno  _ wanted to. _ You didn’t care to listen to Tommy’s side. It wasn’t even a thought that crossed your mind.”

“There was only one timeline where Tubbo, Wilbur, and Tommy lived,” she says, voice hard even as she swallows tears, “and that was the one where you stayed. How does it feel to know you could have prevented their deaths had you simply been the father you claimed to be, Phil? You could have saved them from all of the abuse if you’d simply favored your own sons over your friend. Your friend who cannot die- you chose him over your mortals that someday would.”

Thunder rumbles, and the sky breaks open in tears. She is mourning the loss of these three mortals, too. The Gods favored them so greatly. Clara gathers a few of the raindrops in her palm, and she watches them dance around the spark of Dream’s soul she holds there as well. It’s a playful chase amidst her fingers until she lets the water drip onto the ground. She tucks the piece of Dream’s soul into the cavity of her chest, and she exhales as it settles into place. 

The emotion that comes with having all of his failures laid out for him is something Phil has been avoiding for just under a decade. It’s easy to avoid when he instead focuses all his energy on Techno or Ranboo, but now- well. Clara has laid it all out, and Phil knows for a fact that that isn’t actually all of it. He’d failed as a father.

“Don’t do to Ranboo what you did to the other mortals who relied on you, Phil.” These final words are spoken as the misty shadow comes back in, winding itself around Clara’s form until she’s encompassed entirely. The mist lifts her, and within moments, she’s home within the stars once more.

The fight they’d all been expecting is gone, now, and with that absence of battle comes a rapid decline in adrenaline. People are still dead, though. Anyone who had ever caused or wished harm upon Tommy and Tubbo had been dealt with, brutally, by those who cared for them most. 

Clara, weeping amidst the stars, vows to give each mortal on Dream’s world a second chance. Even those who had wished harm upon her Starchild. They’d only been acting on the influence of Dream’s chaos, after all.

\-----

Technoblade’s fondness for the Greek tragedies came from the fact that he’d lived through them. He’d witnessed each one firsthand, fought alongside most of them.

But none of them had meant as much to him as Theseus. 

Theseus was the first mortal the Blood God ever claimed, and when Techno fished his body out of the sea, he vowed that he would be his last. The pain that came with losing a claimed mortal was something he had never considered, but it burned hotter than the fires one too many had tried to burn him in. It was visceral- ripping his lungs apart from the inside and leaving them bleeding on the floor.

So he had vowed, after he buried Theseus in a place no one would ever find him, that he would never make that mistake again. He would never lay claim to another mortal, never tie himself to something so fragile. Something so prone to misunderstandings and untimely death.

At the time, Techno hadn’t realized claims could be laid unconsciously. He didn’t even stop to consider the concept. 

But then he’d lost Wilbur. Phil killed Wilbur, and Techno had been blinded by the fury which worked so quickly to wash away his grief. The bloodlust won out.

He’d told Tommy to die.

And for once, in all the years Technoblade had known him, Tommy  _ listened. _

It was months after -maybe years, time passed so strangely on Dream’s world- but Tommy had listened. He’d died a hero's death, just like Techno told him to. And it hurt. Just as it had when Theseus had been murdered, just as it had when Wilbur had been murdered, it  _ hurt. _

It may have hurt worse because Techno had been trying to save him. It may have hurt worse because Tommy was so similar to him. It may have hurt worse because out of all of the mortals the Blood God had claimed, both intentionally and not, Tommy had been the only one to ever verbally admit that he favored him. That he  _ loved _ him.

And he’d died believing Techno never loved him back.

Maybe  _ that _ was why it hurt so badly.


	4. i just want you to hold me until all of this is over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortals are so soft, so fragile. It seems almost inevitable that the Gods would fall in love with them.
> 
> Tubbo claims his first mortal. His last.
> 
> Somewhere else, the Blood God dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from mom by broox

* * *

Tubbo is the first of the three of them to intentionally claim a mortal.

Tommy had thought it’d be Wilbur, given his brother’s penchant for wrapping just about anyone in the safety of his words and his magic, but it ends up being Tubbo. 

They’d found a little girl, barely five years old, dirty black hair and a fiery personality, and Tubbo had fallen in love. They’d been wandering together for decades, and no mortal they met had warmed Tubbo’s heart the way this little girl did.

“I’m Bea,” she’d said, brown eyes so dark they seemed black. “You guys smell funny.”

In actuality, it was Bea who smelled like garbage, and she didn’t know what smelling clean actually was. Wilbur had had to charm her into taking a bath because she refused to do so, and by the end of the day, the Gods of Peace, Discord, and Music were wrapped around her tiny, grubby fingers.

They were also soaking wet.

Tubbo demanded they settle, and though Wilbur and Tommy were wanderers at heart, they made no attempt to fight him. 

There’s something viscous inside of them both, the feeling that comes with waking up from a dream that you know you should remember, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t. It feels heavy in their chests, sparks anger in their lungs. Whatever wanderlust they had is satiated every time Bea’s tiny feet come stomping down the stairs. 

Tubbo claims her on her sixth birthday -technically, it’s the anniversary of the day they found her- and something that had been missing in the God of Peace settles. 

Bea works with him in his garden, already tan skin darkening further in the sun, little sun-spots beginning to dot her rounding cheeks. Tubbo teaches her about each flower, each type of tree, each type of bee. She loves them dearly, and she claims with complete sincerity that she can speak to them. They settle in the dark curls of her hair while she works on her grimy knees in the garden, and they dance between her fingers as she plucks weeds. There’s a hive just outside her room, and on warm days, they float lazily through her open window.

Tommy teaches her to spar, once Tubbo deems her old enough. She’s been begging to learn since the first time she ever saw Tommy fell an enemy, but Tubbo had insisted she wait. Tommy still taught her little techniques- especially with knives, no one expected a seven-year-old to pull a knife on them when they tried to steal her basket of bread. 

She stole the crown from Tommy’s head, wore his cloak, and brandished his favorite axe. She’d come at him with a ferocity that felt so familiar to see on someone so small, but Tommy couldn’t place it. He felt like he’d been here before, like he’d been _her_ before, but whatever memories he might have had danced out of his vision as he parried. Bea wasn’t after his life, but she’d made it very clear she wasn’t opposed to stealing a few of his limbs.

And, oh, how they had _laughed._

Wilbur had a fire in him, too, but nothing like Bea’s. She matched Tommy almost blow for blow the older she got, and though Tommy doesn’t remember who taught him out to fight, he knows he’s good, which means Bea is good. She spits swears at him that would make a sailor jealous, and her laugh is boisterous, and she is his pride and joy. 

Bea is calmer with Wilbur, but not quite as calm as she is with Tubbo. Wilbur teaches her how to play the guitar, and they sing soft duets around the fireplace at night, and sometimes when it rains, they’ll sing to the bees. Their voices twist in perfect harmony, meld and mold a story Tommy and Tubbo feel in their bones, but they can’t remember. The melody is familiar, but something is just slightly off. A piano out of tune. A symphony unfinished. 

Tubbo tries to teach Bea how to bake, and she nearly burns the house down. They stick to things that don’t involve fire, after that. 

Bea grows up, grows older, and soon she’s shining and sixteen. Physically close in age to the three Gods who raised her, but they have decades under their belt. They’re a little family, the four of them. Three brothers who never age, and their little sister who can’t seem to stop. She asks for independence and they grant it, and even though it feels like a part of them dies each time she leaves, they let her go. 

She always comes back. Always.

Until she doesn’t.

The voices that linger in their heads scream for her, beg and cry late one night and force them all out of bed and into their clothes, and they follow Tubbo’s lead as he sprints in the direction of the massive kingdom that lies to their east.

They break through the crowd, barely armed in their hurry, and everything stills.

Nothing really stops, no, but Tubbo’s world grinds to a halt as the claim, lilting and yellow as the sun, is severed brutally by the hands of a man. He’s scraggly, greasy faced and rail-thin, and there’s a fire in his eyes as he drops Bea’s broken body. The castle crest shines mockingly in the light of the nearby beacon. 

There is something to be said about losing a claimed mortal, whether they were claimed intentionally or not. It is one of the most painful experiences a God will ever go through, second only to having their soul dispersed. It isn’t as bad when it is old age or sickness that steals them away, but it is excruciating when they’re stolen before their time.

Bea is freshly seventeen. 

Bea is a _child._

Tubbo shakes, a fire in his eyes as he stares down the man who’d done this- who’d robbed him of his mortal. It’s a castle guard, a guard of this kingdom that Tubbo has poured so much peace into, that did it. This is how they repay him. This is how they thank him for keeping them thriving. This is how they _die._

“Tommy-” Peace murmurs, voice thick.

“Anything,” Discord answers. 

Tubbo pulls each ounce of artificial peace he’d carved from his very soul out of every crevice in the kingdom, and he shakes as these pieces find their home in his veins. He turns to Tommy, to Wilbur, his closest friends, and he finds the same grief he feels in their eyes. They’re waiting for his command. 

_“Ruin them,"_ he hisses, like poison on his tongue, and they do.

The kingdom goes up in flames as three Gods rain down their grief- their fury. Families slaughter each other. The guards turn on the king. Discord takes hold as the battle song rings out, seething with uncontained heat from the golden cords of a star-bound guitar. 

They bury Bea in the backyard, beneath the tree that houses the giant beehive. The bees themselves bring flowers, and the air is alight with the buzzing of thousands of tiny wings.

Tubbo is the first to intentionally claim a mortal, but he won’t ever do it again.

Or so he believes.

\-----

“Blade?” The voice is soft, and though it’s nasally and thick, the Blood God recognizes it instantly. It’s a physical voice: a stark contrast from the cacophony of voices that usually rings in his head, though they quiet at the sound of this new one. He turns from his desk and to the small boy who stands in his open doorway, little socked feet shuffling in place as he clutches Techno’s old cape in his hands. “I threw up.”

Which- ew. Gross. He can smell it now that he’s actively aware of it, and it’s not a pleasant scent. It conflicts putridly with the normal pine that lingers in the air. 

“Did you brush your teeth?” Technoblade asks, setting the quill he’d been using down and turning to face Tommy fully.

“No.” Tommy’s answer is soft, and a little wet, and Techno resists the urge to scrub a hand down his face.

“Go brush your teeth.”

He’s not sure why Phil chose to leave him here with Tommy this time around. Usually, when his friend would head out, he’d take both Tommy and Wilbur with him. This time it’d only been Wilbur, and Phil had called in one of the only favors Techno owed him. 

Being in the house with just Tommy had been fine up until recently. Phil’s youngest mortal, though unnecessarily talkative and annoying, has always been good company. He gives Techno a good outlet for the nervous energy that builds in him if he stays in one place for too long; they spend hours outside every day sparring. It’s more teaching than sparring, if Techno is being honest, because Tommy isn’t even four feet tall. He doesn’t even come up to Techno’s hip.

And then they’d spent too long in the rain -it’s been hundreds of years, Techno has long since forgotten how susceptible mortals are to the weather- and Tommy had gotten sick. 

His fever had spiked high enough that Techno could feel the heat of it on his palm, and his body was at least a few degrees warmer than mortals were. Phil had given him instructions on what to do through the communicator, and Techno had followed them to the letter, and Tommy’s fever had gone down. 

He won’t ever admit to anyone how terrifying it had been when the six-year-old hadn’t been lucid enough to understand that Techno was speaking to him. And if he did, he’d blame it on the fact that the kid dying would upset Phil. Phil was the only being Techno cared about, after all.

“I’m done,” comes Tommy’s small voice again, and Techno focuses back in on where he’s returned to shuffling in the doorway.

_This_ is the problem with Phil leaving him alone with Tommy -besides the fact that he has no earthly idea about how to care for a mortal child. His prized sword is quite literally named “Orphan Obliterator”- neither one of them will explicitly state what they want. Not in terms of physical contact, anyway. From what the Blood God has observed, when Wilbur was sick, he liked to be held. He’d crawl into Phil’s lap and wiggle around until the God of Death wrapped him up in his wings, and then he’d be content.

Is that what Tommy wants?

Techno sure hopes it isn’t.

“Well. I’m going to go back to writing now, so…” The tension that’s rapidly growing between his shoulders spikes when Tommy shuffles further into the room, and Techno stops his slow turn back to his desk. Tommy stares up at him with big blue eyes, puffed out cheeks bright red with fever, and his bottom lip trembles. Techno doesn’t think he’ll know what to do if the kid cries.

And then Tommy is, rather forcefully, trying to climb into his lap. He doesn’t make it very far, but Techno gives him props for at least trying. His skinny arms tremble with fatigue.

“This is just pathetic at this point,” Techno grumbles to himself, and after a moment of hesitation, he reaches down and hooks his hands under Tommy’s arms. He hoists him up and his senses are immediately flooded with the weird kid-soap Phil uses on his hair. Tommy makes a disgruntled noise as he practically plasters himself to the Blood God’s chest, and after a moment of shifting around, he goes limp.

The voices coo, some mocking, some genuine, and Techno resolves to ignore them as he turns back to his writings. He’s not entirely sure what to do with his arms, not sure whether he’s supposed to hold Tommy or not -a small few of the voices tell him that yes, he is, because that’s what Phil does- so he chooses not to, instead caging the small boy in without actually touching him any more than he already has to.

“Love you, Techno,” Tommy murmurs, voice muffled where he’s squished his face, but Technoblade hears him all the same. 

His own thoughts get lost in the rush of shouting that comes from Chat, hundreds of thousands of opinions melding together until they form a hellish background noise. He grapples with Tommy’s words for far longer than he’ll ever remember, staring down at the little mortal who dozes so easily in his lap, and then he forces his mind to blank.

It’s just Tommy, six years old and still no filter, but something is different. Something is clearer.

_(A claim, though unintentional, has been laid.)_

“Technoblade?” Another voice calls, deeper yet recognizable all the same, and the Blood God turns to face the open door. Tommy is hunched there, backlit, draped in Techno’s own red cape that still drags behind him even as it sits on his shoulders. The friendship emerald gleams where it hangs from Tommy’s ear amidst his longer strands of hair. He spares a glance at his lap, confusion slowly bleeding into recognition, as he realizes that the Tommy from a decade ago is gone.

He’d been dreaming. He’d been dreaming of a memory, but he’d been dreaming all the same. He’s sitting at his workbench, and he can feel lines in his cheek from where he’d been lying on his arm. 

“What’re you doing out of bed, Tommy?” He stands to his full height and makes his way over, ducking under the lantern that hangs from the ceiling, and coming to rest his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. They've made so much progress- Tommy doesn't even flinch. The mortal blinks up at him with bleary eyes, gray where they should be blue, and Techno frowns.

“I threw up,” Tommy says, voice hoarse and lower lip trembling. It’s so reminiscent of his dream that Techno almost cracks a smile, but that wouldn’t be very on-brand, so he doesn’t. Not that he thinks Tommy would really notice, given that when he places his hand against Tommy’s forehead, he can feel the heat on his palm. 

“Of course you did.”

They’ve been playing this game for months, now. Techno found Tommy below his basement, and he nursed the too-skinny kid back to health, and Tommy just… never left. He gets sick often, and Technoblade has a feeling it’s because of the awful conditions he lived in while he was exiled -both in Pogtopia and Logstedshire- but this is the first time Tommy’s gotten the stomach flu to go with it.

The voices mock him for his knowledge of mortal sicknesses. 

He can’t bring himself to care.

Techno helps Tommy back up the stairs to his room, stepping around the vomit on the floor that he can now definitely smell, and toward the sink. “Did you brush your teeth?” He asks, and again, staves off a small smile.

“Yeah,” Tommy answers dazedly, staring at something in the distance. “Didn’t like how it tasted.”

He does scoff a laugh this time, and Tommy smiles up at him even as his eyes droop. Techno nudges him back in the direction of his bed, hovering nearby in case he falls, but he makes it to the mattress on his own. He wraps himself up in his stolen cape and turns half his face into the pillow, blinking out at the Blood God with bleary eyes. They slide closed, and after his breathing starts to even, Techno goes to take his leave.

“Love you, Techno,” Tommy murmurs, voice slurred, and every piece of hair on Techno’s body stands on end. He forces himself to relax, rolling his shoulders back and settling his thoughts even as the voices explode into sound.

He will deny the warmth that the words fill his chest with until the day he dies. And Technoblade never dies, so there’s no reason to ever stop denying it.

He jolts, eyes shooting open as his head slips out of his hand and he knocks it against the table. 

Techno has to take a second to catch his breath, to take in his surroundings, and he calms when he realizes he’s at his kitchen table. He must’ve fallen back to sleep after putting Tommy to bed. He leans back over the chair and stretches, releasing a sigh when his spine pops a few times. It’s dark outside when he glances at the window, which means he needs to check on Phil’s mortal and make sure his fever has gone down.

Before he stands, he catches a flash of green and gold on the table. 

It’s… one of the emerald earrings he’d crafted so long ago. There’s a **T** engraved into the gold band that holds the emerald in place, but when Techno reaches up to his ear, his own earring is still there.

This one is Tommy’s.

He turns to look at the door, the rack hanging by it, and one of his older capes is missing. His stomach sinks, and the voices, for maybe the third time in his countless millennia-long history, fall silent.

The cape isn’t there because he’d buried Tommy in it.

He wishes he could wake up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. yes the entire second half of this was based on the i threw up meme. it is my favorite. 
> 
> also, it's been recently brought to my attention that jack and niki are also children in the dsmp technically (being what?? 18 and 19??) so now im pushing even more for papa puffy to GIVE THEM SOME FUCKING THERAPY, JESUS CHRIST. please @ the writers, give these kids a mental health break before they hurt each other even more than they already have
> 
> also also: apparently philza said in one of his recent streams that he isn't dsmp!tommy's dad??? which is so funny to me bc he's wrong lmao. his mind must be failing him in his old age haha


	5. if i'm not mistaken, then i was the last to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream's old world slowly heals, and memories are regained.
> 
> Not everything is fixed, but it's slowly getting better.
> 
> For some.

* * *

Without Dream there to keep feeding his crumbling world the red poison that is his chaos, the world slowly goes back to normal.

Not at first, no, not even close. 

It’s almost like withdrawal in the beginning. The absence of chaos is noticed almost immediately, though no one knows what exactly is missing in. They wake up with jitters, sweats, and trembling hands as the poison is sucked from their veins. When they spit what they believe to be blood, it is far too bright and red. Their insides are twisted and wrong, leaving them jumbled, stumbling, sweating until it’s all gone.

And when it is gone, when their heads finally clear of the haze that had settled there, they are left with all they have wrought unto themselves when they were being puppeteered. The world is cracked and torn, red tendrils of poison leaking from the seams. Houses have been overtaken, crops are dead, entire forests are bathed in a sea of bloody plants.

Those, too, shrivel and die.

It is Skeppy who finally explains to them what the Egg was. The red bleeds from him, replaced by the darling blue they’ve missed so dearly. He is the last to be cleaned of chaos, and that is what he tells them it is. Chaos.

When the people under Dream’s influence could no longer take the chaos he so desperately tried to wrap them in, when their heads were too tangled in strings to see just how far down they’d been pulled, the surplus of chaos Dream had expended needed a new place to go. And thus, it had physically manifested, leaving the Egg beneath the ground. As Dream fed more chaos to his broken world, the Egg spread. His whispers became its whispers, and soon it was its own being.

The vines shrivel and turn to dust, and the last remains of the chaos blow away on the wind. 

Eret and Sam remain unaffected -their Godly status keeping them safe from it all- so they begin the clean-up process as soon as they realize the Egg and its vines are dying. Eret shelters survivors in his castle while Sam begins to rebuild, and Puffy assists where she can. 

It is as they clean, as Bad and Ant and Skeppy recover, that things begin to settle.

Clara begs Life, in all her softness, to bring back those who lost their lives to the chaos Dream sewed. Those Death took too early in a rashness inspired by grief, and Life agrees. Jack and Niki are returned to who they used to be, minus the chaos in their minds, and Clara brings them back to their people.

It’s not fixed. It’s far from fixed. The chaos is gone but the memories they created are not- the feelings are not. But without the ever-present chaos to color those thoughts further in red, to demand repayment, there is room to heal.

“I know you were hurting,” Puffy says, sitting across from Niki in one of the higher rooms in Eret’s castle. “I know you _are_ hurting. I just- I wish you’d talked to me. I wish you’d seen the similarities instead of the differences.”

Niki is still recovering, the raised pink scar across her throat still burns. Talking still hurts. “I was just so _angry.”_ She says, tears searing her already wet eyes. “And I wanted someone to hurt like I was. I wanted- I _needed_ to blame someone and make everything go away.”

“And it was easier to blame Tommy,” Puffy finishes, and when Niki nods, she heaves a heavy sigh. 

She understands where Niki is coming from, honestly. Niki was as much of a child during all of the wars; she lost everything Tommy did. 

“And how do you feel now?” She asks her, voice gentle. The rage she had felt before is gone, has been gone since it became clear where it had originally come from. It bled out of her as each string her duckling wrapped her in fell from around her heart.

_(She’ll never know that these strings had been softer, warmer, where others’ had been harsh and grating. She’ll never know of the claim that once lingered like flower petals in her hair.)_

“I’m still angry,” Niki answers, “but I’m- sad. And lost. I feel like I’m this- this awful person, but I know that I’m not. I didn’t deserve any of it. I know it’s not fair, but that doesn’t fix the fact that I feel wrong inside. I don’t know who I am anymore, Puffy.”

They’re quiet, two women who have seen too much, in this room together.

Puffy offers her hand -an olive branch- but she does not force Niki to take it. She waits patiently as her heart aches, and it is only when Niki hesitantly brushes her fingers over Puffy’s palm that she smiles.

“I’ll support you while you figure it out. And I’ll listen,” Puffy whispers. This is all she can offer.

Someday, when the sun is high in the sky and both women sit beside each other at a three-way wedding, they will forgive each other fully. For now, too many things are uncertain. Niki does not yet know herself enough to know if her desire for Tommy’s death was influenced by Dream. Puffy does not yet know if she can love Niki the way she used to.

But they will. Five years from now, they’ll sway together on the dancefloor as the grooms attempt to drown each other in the punchbowl, and they will forgive. The world will heal.

\-----

Wilbur wakes them up one morning with a look in his eyes. It’s a distant look, haunted, and Tommy is instantly on edge. Smoke seems to swirl out of Wilbur's hair like it always does when his emotions are especially volatile -Tommy’s only seen it once before: when they burnt the kingdom that killed Bea to the ground- and Tommy doesn’t try to talk over him.

Wilbur leaves them both with teary apologies and shaky hands, and he promises to find them again. He says he has things he needs to handle on his own, but he _promises_ to come back. He leaves his guitar with them as an assurance that he’ll come home.

Ash settles on Tommy’s tongue.

Years go by- time isn’t really real to Gods. With no mortal to help them tell the time, Tommy and Tubbo simply world hop whenever they feel like it. They know Wilbur will find them, and they’re not worried. 

Well- they’re a little worried. This is the first time in almost fifty years that they’ve been two instead of three. They both still have each other, and they each have their voices, but they’ve been looking to Wilbur for big decisions for a while now. It’s odd to travel without their big brother.

Speaking of the voices-

Tommy adores the voices in his head. He really, truly does. They’re ‘The Boys’, and they almost always support his ideas, and yeah, they’re a little too loud sometimes, but they’re hilarious. They prepare him for danger before he even knows it’s coming, and they come up with great ideas for pranks, and they’re very protective of Tubbo and Wilbur. These are three very good qualities that have earned the voices Tommy’s respect. 

But he doesn’t like that the voices keep telling him to try to remember. And he doesn’t like that when he dreams of lost memories, the voices aren’t there. He doesn’t like when his head is empty.

The first memories were okay without the voices. They made sense- Wilbur was there, and he was always taking care of Tommy. There were other people, too, and they were huge compared to him and Wilbur, but they felt like they were supposed to be there. The biggest one is always warm, but Tommy can’t see his face. He can’t see the winged one’s face either. They feel like home.

Tommy wakes up and he misses Wilbur, and he misses the tall one, and he misses the winged one. He feels like they should be there with him, too. The Boys are loud about both of them, and they’re conflicted, but they still want him to remember more. Tommy would be fine to remember nothing else -just the soft feathers and rumbling laughter of these two people who seemed to raise him and Wilbur- but the voices insist. They say he needs to.

He wishes he hadn’t.

Because The Boys aren’t ever in his memory-dreams, and neither is Tubbo, so it’s just Tommy all by himself. And when the tall one and the winged one stop showing up in his dreams, he always wakes up in tears. He aches with how much he misses them, and small towns fall to the discord that bubbles uncontrolled with his tears. He doesn’t want to keep remembering.

His memory-dreams are few and far between. It takes decades for him to even get to the ones that make him cry, but when he does, he wishes he hadn’t. He wishes The Boys would stop telling him to remember.

The tall one is called Technoblade, and the winged one is called Phil. Technoblade told him to die, and Phil killed Wilbur.

He understands why Wilbur left, now.

\-----

Techno is going to leave this terrible world. He doesn’t know why he’s stayed so long, but he’s leaving. Phil left some time ago, and Techno was trying his hand at retirement again, but it was different this time.

Quackity had finally married his fiances, and his plans for the Butcher Army had quickly crumbled to bits when the three of them accidentally adopted several children. Techno had been fine with that. He would never understand peoples’ propensity for adopting orphans. It made absolutely no sense to him.

_(The bright yellow sweater in his enderchest says otherwise. The golden earring clasped safely to his lapel says otherwise.)_

Niki had visited when Clara and Kristen brought her back to life, and she’d brought Puffy. The two women had never gotten married, but Techno could tell that they’d loved each other. Before they died of old age, he tentatively called them his friends.

Eret claimed Fundy, and though Phil had long since denounced the fox as his grandson, it had still been too much for the Death God to handle. That’d been when he’d fled the world, taking Ranboo with him, and Techno still doesn’t know why he didn’t go with them. Something is keeping him in this cottage, with his bees, and his remaining withers that he never got the chance to use.

There is a support beam in the attic. Techno leans against it while he reads some days, the words carved into it just barely making an impression on the back of his head. He sits against the adjacent beam today -the day he plans to leave- and he studies those words. 

_A visitor!_ The voices cry, excitement swirling around the Blood God’s head and pushing him to his feet. The only visitors he could have are Eret and Sam, but neither God remains on this world anymore. Everyone else who knew of his cottage is long dead. _Hurry! Oh, this is gonna be interesting._

Techno spares one more glance at the carved _“Tommy waz here”_ before sliding down the ladder and making his way toward the front door. It’s definitely a God on the other side, but not one he recognizes. The voices are roiling with both excitement and apprehension. Techno grabs his sword just to be safe, glancing out the window and frowning when the blizzard outside obscures who it is.

The God at his door knocks, and Techno throws the door open.

“We need to talk.”

Technoblade’s heart might as well still in his chest.

“Wilbur?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. I MADE AN ENTIRE POWERPOINT ABOUT THE LORE FOR THIS SERIES INSTEAD OF DOING MY HOMEWORK. WE ARE THRIVING. HERE IS THE LINK: https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1roKZRi77LPMfr4I-5LdcxOsp5I33oqicAJGWyg7y_TI/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> this chapter isn't particularly angsty i don't think? i mostly just wanted to get it out bc i wanted to share my lore powerpoint with yall. you don't have to check it out but if you wanted to that would be kinda fun


	6. emptiness is a closet full of your old clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy doesn’t answer Phil, and his breathing stutters, and Technoblade’s entire world is slowly grinding to a halt as the walls crumble around him and it happens _again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter because I wanted to write angst from pig boy's perspective in between the first and second chapters.
> 
> Emptiness is a closet full of your old clothes by flatsound is a good song you should listen to it

* * *

“Why didn’t you come back?” Tommy asks them, his voice wispy in quality, thick as he drowns in his own blood. “I waited.”

Phil is trembling, wings tucked in close to his back as he holds tightly to Tommy’s hands. “I’m sorry, Toms,” he says, “I wish we had come back sooner.”

Techno keeps working, cutting away the fabric that’s long since glued itself to Tommy’s back, hands already soaked in blood. The breath is running from his lungs as though the voices are stealing it to scream, and maybe he himself is screaming. He can’t be sure anymore. Terror weighs his veins down, latching on with poisoned claws and  _ pulling, _ ripping him to shreds as they go.

Tommy doesn’t answer Phil, and his breathing stutters, and Technoblade’s entire world is slowly grinding to a halt as the walls crumble around him and it happens  _ again. _

He’d only been aware of the claim he had on Wilbur because it had been broken, but he hadn’t made that mistake with Tommy. Wilbur’s broken claim had given away the other claim’s hiding spot, and Techno had held it in both hands and  _ pulled. _ He’d stopped just as the final threads were beginning to fray, and he’d taken a breath, and he’d thought about it. 

In the end, he’d left it there. He’d left it there because Tommy was too stubborn to die in a way that would make it hurt. He’d left it there because the voices had yelled at him until he did. He’d left it there because Tommy was prone to getting himself in trouble, and  _ just in case, _ it would be good to keep an eye on Phil’s other mortal. It was all for Phil.

But it’s happening  _ again, _ now, because Tommy had almost died in exile. Terror had shot through Techno’s veins as soon as he realized the claim was fading, and it’d led him to his own home. There beneath the floorboards had been Tommy, hypothermic, riddled with frostbite and  _ dying. _ Yet he hadn’t died. He’d fought through the amputation, the fevers, the panic, and Technoblade’s own terror, and he had  _ lived. _

The claim slips right between his fingers this time, too fast for him to grab, falling to the floor with the blood that leaks from Tommy’s back.

Techno’s soul snaps back into his chest, slamming so hard into his lungs that he sees stars. He catches himself on the table, gritting his teeth against suddenly blurry vision, body trembling. Phil sinks to his knees on the other side of the table, hands still clasped around Tommy’s, and he weeps.

The Blood God will not cry. Tommy is far too stubborn to die, and Techno won’t let him off the hook that easily. He and Tommy still need to hash it out, still need to duel out in the field where Techno has proven his prowess again and again, still need to fix everything. Because Tommy isn’t a bad person, and Techno can’t tell him that if he’s  _ dead- _

His enderchest presents him a totem of undying when he reaches for it, and he wrenches one of Phil’s hands away from Tommy’s in order to tuck the idol riddled with old magic into the mortal’s hand. The trembling of his hands is adrenaline. He’s going to let Tommy have it the second the kid opens his eyes. 

They wait. They wait for hours, or maybe days, or maybe years. Time means nothing to the Gods, yet it has never passed so slowly before in Techno’s lifetime. He curses Clara, curses the dust in the room, curses the dryness of his eyes. He will not cry because Tommy is too stubborn to die. 

Tommy’s body is cold on the table, cold beneath Techno’s hands. He stokes the fire to warm him up. It’s better this way; Tommy always complained about the cold when he woke up. He always had something to say about everything Techno did. 

He cleans up the blood from the table and the floor, tries to scrub it out of the remains of Tommy’s shirt. When that doesn’t work, Techno leaves Phil to watch Tommy while he goes up to his old room to grab some of the clothes he’d left behind in his closet. Tommy’s limbs are stiff as Techno tries to change his shirt, and there must be a leak somewhere in the roof because water droplets keep appearing on the fabric, but Techno can’t see anything when he looks up. 

He keeps the same post he kept when Tommy was recovering from nearly dying the first time. He’ll be here when Tommy wakes up just like he was then, and this time he’ll be able to yell at him. This time it’ll be different.

The voices don’t talk much. Techno thinks they might pity him, but he doesn’t need that. He’ll show them all. Regardless of what a brave few whisper to him in the dead of night, he’s not in denial. There’s nothing to be in denial about. Tommy is too stubborn to die.

“That’s enough,” Phil says at dusk on the third day. His voice is stern, but he sounds tired. There are bags under his eyes. “We need to bury him.”

The totem hadn’t worked when Techno pressed it into Tommy’s limp hand. There had been no shower of sparks, no surge of tainted magic, no glow that meant something indefinite had somehow been reversed. Tommy had stayed dead, and the claim had stayed severed, and Techno knew he’d never heal. 

He hadn’t gotten to lay Wilbur to rest- Phil had flown off with his mortal’s body the moment Techno unleashed his withers. He never mentioned where he’d buried him, never said anything about it to anyone. He even denied to Wilbur’s ghost that he’d been buried.

Techno had wondered what Phil had done to  _ have _ that ghost. 

He wished Phil would be willing to do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> that line i used for the summary spawned in my head right before i fell asleep and it wasn't going to leave me alone until i wrote it, so this was born. don't worry, next chapter will be a real update and techno and wilbur will be Brothers™ so hopefully that'll help a little bit. also, side note, if i decided to do a good ending and a bad ending would we like that yes or no


	7. if you'd return for me, i'd never want for more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blood God holds no love for things that will disappear- but Wilbur won’t.
> 
> Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from fear of water by syml

* * *

“Techno,” Wilbur says, staring up at him with snow in his hair and color in his cheeks and he is  _ alive. _ “Are you gonna let me in?”

The Blood God is not one for physical affection. Touch makes his skin burn, makes attachment swirl inside of him in ways he wishes it wouldn’t. It sends ice into his veins because mortals will disappear, and he can’t do this again.

But the last time he’d seen Wilbur, the last time he’d  _ really _ seen Wilbur, he’d been dead. Not Ghostbur- not that husk- but Wilbur. Phil had killed him. The severed claim had ripped through Techno’s body with enough force to nearly send him crumbling to his knees. 

He hadn’t even known the claim was there.

The voices had lost the small semblance of composure they’d had when the sword went through Wilbur’s chest. They’d felt the loss, too. They’d cried for blood, begged for it like it was a morid balm to the gaping hole in Wilbur’s chest.The hole that was already bleeding.The hole that more blood couldn’t even begin to fix. But it would satiate the anger that roiled inside of Techno’s bones like nothing else ever could, rivaled only by the rage that came when they had pushed Theseus.

That had been a bad day. Technoblade lost something he didn’t even know he had as he burned what remained of L’Manburg to the ground.

Now, staring down at the smoke curling out of Wilbur’s hair, and the way one side of his mouth pulls higher than the other, and the way it’s been well over one hundred years, he doesn’t feel like the Blood God. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s feeling, but if he were more prone to looking into himself and acknowledging his feelings, he’d realize it’s unadulterated  _ relief. _

Techno stoops to wrap Wilbur in a hug, hoisting the smaller God off his feet and into the air. Wilbur’s arms lock around his broad shoulders, fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, and he laughs in surprise. He smells like soot, like smoke, and Techno’s sensitive nose picks up smells he knows but can’t quite place.

The Blood God holds no love for things that will disappear- but Wilbur won’t. Not anymore.

“I  _ would _ still like to come inside,” Wilbur says, voice muffled, but there is mirth there. The echo of Ghostbur is absent, the blue smudges are gone, the amnesia is gone-

Actually, Techno doesn’t know what Wilbur remembers and what he doesn’t. Phil had been planning some way to revive him, and they hadn’t been sure what he’d remember  _ then, _ let alone now. The Blood God sets Wilbur down, and he pushes his door open further, stooping to pick up his discarded sword and setting it back on its little stand. 

Wilbur hums as he steps inside, turning in a slow circle to take everything in, and Techno’s sensitive ears pick up the way every single fire in the house pops in rhythm with the noise as it floats out of Wilbur’s throat.

“How’s your memory?” Techno asks once they’ve sat themselves in his living room. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, putting himself as physically close to Wilbur as he can be without smothering him. It’s not something he even realizes he’s doing until the voices mock him for it, and he makes no move to correct it.

“It’s coming back, I think,” Wilbur says, nervous fingers dancing over nonexistent piano keys across his lap. “I don’t remember much from the ghost, but I remember everything before that.”

This is difficult. This is twisting a hot poker right in between Techno’s intestines, spearing them on prongs and swirling them until he struggles to see straight. Chat mocks him once more for his clear discomfort at Wilbur’s distress- though they’re just as concerned. They’ve missed Wilbur as much as he has. 

“Do you think they’ll come back? Ghostbur’s memories, I mean.”

Wilbur scoffs a tiny laugh, smile turning slightly bitter. “Is that what he called himself?”

“Yeah,” Techno answers, voice turning rumbly as he tries to soften it. “He was- interesting. I guess.”

“I see.”

More smoke slowly curls out of Wilbur’s hair as he seems to sink into himself, eyes growing dark as he succumbs to whatever is going on in his head. This look isn’t anything near what it was in Pogtopia, but it still sets Techno on edge. 

He’d hated himself for months after L’Manburg fell. The frothing turmoil that was dragging him under had been terrifying, even to someone like him, (especially to someone like him, who had only been made aware of a claim that ran far too deep because it’d been ripped out of him violently) and he’d put all of the pent up aggression into building his retirement home and clearing the nearby area of mobs. His body had trembled relentlessly, mournful voices haunting him with all he could’ve done if he’d only known.

“What happened to Dream?” Wilbur asks, diverting his own thoughts from wherever they’d been going. The Chaos God’s name still has Techno’s hackles rising, but now isn’t the time to get angry. Even if he does feel like he’d never gotten the revenge he desperately craved.

“Basically- do you know what dispersal is?” Techno asks, and when Wilbur gives a kind-of-nod, Techno continues. “Clara poofed Dream, I guess. Took his soul and exploded it, and then scattered the pieces all over. It’ll take him a while to reform.”

Wilbur’s face sours, and he slumps further into the chair he’s sitting in. “So he’s not dead? Course he isn’t. Fucking bastard.”

Techno snorts a small laugh, shaking his head in what the voices mock as fondness. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d have killed him.  _ Phil _ would’ve killed him if Clara’d given him the chance.”

“Where is Phil, anyway?” Wilbur asks, sitting up a little straighter, glancing around like he wouldn’t be able to feel Phil’s presence if he were actually here. The God of Death’s presence was always heavy and large, even when he tried to make it smaller. “Figured he’d rather be with you now that Tommy and I were out of the picture.”

There it is. There’s the bite Technoblade had been waiting for. 

Wilbur’s tongue had always been sharp, picking apart insecurities since he was eight. He had the uncanny ability to dance around the point while nudging whoever he was talking to directly into it, yet he rarely hesitated to reach the point himself. His way with words was something Techno had never really been able to match, and it had caused him endless frustration when Wilbur was younger. 

He’d missed it when Wilbur was dead.

“He actually took Ranboo off-world with him not long after Tommy died. He was going to look for you.”

His words give Wilbur pause. The brunet frowns, fingers twitching like he’s looking for something. Techno vaguely remembers that he used to smoke when they were down in that ravine. He also remembers how much he’d hated the smell of cigarettes that always lingered in Tommy’s hair because of it.

“Why didn’t you go with him?” Wilbur questions, squinted eyes mildly accusing, but all the look does is fill Techno with exasperation. He’d asked himself that question for years, constantly packing his weapons and preparing to leave just to unpack them again. It’d taken him far too long to admit to himself why he’d stayed.

“I was waiting for you to come home.” And that’s- a lot more honest than Techno was going for. If Wilbur’s face is anything to go by, it’s as far from what he was expecting as it could’ve gotten. They both sit in surprised silence for a few moments, the very air holding its breath while Techno’s voices go back to mocking him relentlessly, and then Wilbur’s face splits into a smile. 

The smaller God folds over, laughing so hard he wheezes into his knees, slamming a palm against the chair as he goes. Techno kicks the chair over without a second thought, smirking when Wilbur screams, though that slowly dissolves into a small smile when Wilbur starts to laugh again. 

“So you  _ did _ like us!” Wilbur exclaims, sitting up beside the overturned chair and stabbing an accusatory finger in Techno’s direction. “Tommy always said you didn’t, but I knew you did. You can’t hide from me.”

The jovial atmosphere tapers off a bit at the mention of the missing blond, the youngest member of their strange little family still absent. Wilbur fixes the chair and sits back down in it as Techno watches the fire flicker, both of them resolving to sit in silence as they gather their thoughts.

“Tommy’s why I came here, actually,” Wilbur murmurs, gaze dark and far away yet again. “I didn’t want to be there when he started to remember what I did. Both to him and to everyone else.”

Techno can understand that. Tommy’s rage had always been scathing, especially with the way the kid was so open with his emotions. The Blood God had wiped one too many tears from Tommy’s cheeks, spawned from nearly every emotion  _ except _ sadness, to not know exactly what those emotions felt like on the receiving end.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Techno says, voice going low once again, “I don’t think Tommy blamed you. He- Dream manipulated him, too. Tommy was a smart kid, it wouldn’t have taken much time for him to figure it out.”

“Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be rightfully scared of me anyway,” Wilbur snarls. The fire in the hearth grows, and smoke begins to curl from his hair yet again. “I still remember his eyes, Techno. They were all so scared of me; Fundy didn’t even-” Techno cringes as Wilbur freezes, but the smaller God simply slumps further into his chair with a heavy exhale. The fire nearly goes out. “How… how was Fundy? After everything?”

“Eret ended up adopting him.” Techno answers simply. He doesn’t know how far he should go into detail. The last thing he wants to do is upset Wilbur and burn down his cottage. Ever bare of his belongings, Techno had put a lot of effort into this build.

Wilbur wipes a tear Techno pretends not to see, and he heaves a heavy sigh. Techno gives his own small sigh when the fire goes back to normal. “That’s… good. I guess. I need to thank Eret if I ever see him. Do you know if he’s still here?”

“He went off-world a while ago. Not sure where he ended up, though.”

“Cool.”

They fall back into silence again, both Gods absorbing the other’s presence as it slowly begins to grow dark outside. Techno marvels at how similar Wilbur’s essence feels to his mortal soul when he brushes up against it with his own, and he finds himself wondering what Tommy’s feels like. What Phil’s would have felt like if he’d ever been mortal.

“How  _ is _ Tommy?” Techno finally asks, leaning back in his own chair and crossing his arms over his chest. The voices mock him for his unconscious defensiveness, and he quickly unwinds his arms. 

Wilbur smiles softly, eyes fond even as they gleam with mischief. “He’s a gremlin, just like always. He and Tubbo complement each other well. They hadn’t really caused too many problems the last time I saw them.” And then Wilbur turns to look at him, and his smile morphs into a smirk. “I think Tommy modeled his clothes after you without even realizing it. He wears a crown, now. Although he swaps it for a turtle-helmet on occasion. Not sure why, but it makes him look stupid.”

Techno can see Tommy in his mind’s eye, six years old with a plundered crown atop his tiny head. Then he’s sixteen, laughing under his turtle shell-helmet as Techno shows him how non-conducive the helmet is for his own face. It’d covered the Blood God’s eyes, and somehow Tommy had looked completely normal in his. 

“I practically taught him everything he knows,” Techno brags, rolling his eyes in exasperated fondness as he fights a smile. “Only makes sense that he’d model after me. Does he at least credit the original?”

Wilbur’s smile falls a little, one corner of his mouth drooping as if he’s struggling not to frown. “I don’t- think he remembers you. At least he didn’t the last time I was with him. I don’t think his memories had started coming back by the time I left.”

“Oh.” Is all Techno has to offer after he’s silent for a moment. The voices mourn for him, but part of Techno feels like this might be for the best. It’d be like starting anew. “That’s alright. You, uh, when are you planning on heading back to him?”

“Not sure,” Wilbur answers with a shrug. “It’ll take me a while to find them again, probably.”

“Right,” Techno mutters into the silence that descends. It’s not heavy, instead feeling distinctly soft, and the blanket of warmth from the fire keeps the atmosphere of the room rather subdued. Techno doesn’t have much else to say, too busy listening to the way the voices bicker with each other and with his own thoughts. He couldn’t pick up the conversation again if he wanted to, anyway, because Wilbur falls asleep right in his chair like he’s meant to be there.

The blizzard outside slowly lets up, and Techno watches it through the window past Wilbur’s head. He dances around his own thoughts, delicately refusing to touch on the ones that might make his haste to start his search for Tommy even worse. He’s itching to find Tommy, now, because he already has Wilbur. Wilbur should know where Tommy is, and after they get back to Tommy, Techno can bring them to Phil. 

It’s a small shock to realize he craves the presence of the three of them in the same place. It’s an even bigger shock when he realizes he isn’t even mad at himself for doing so.

_ Soft, _ the voices call him, teasing in their lilt.  _ Technosoft. _

He can just barely admit that he is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends :) 
> 
> i don't really have much to say about this one honestly. pig boy is growing soft. all this poorly concealed love for mortals-turned-gods is really bad for his reputation
> 
> also! I've got a request fic thing going now!! it's the sixth part of this series, and so far all the things I've got started for it are really fun. im looking forward to doing requests


	8. this is a place where i don't feel alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Tubbo want to go somewhere to heal.
> 
> They rebuild an old home, and they handle old hurts, and they meet old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from to build a home by the cinematic orchestra

* * *

It is only when Tommy finally remembers dying, remembers Techno’s hands pressing at the hole in his back, remembers Phil’s hands in his, that he decides he wants to go home.

Not- not L’Manburg. Not Dream’s world. Tommy’s a little sick of living in places other people have ruined for him, and he wants to go somewhere with -mostly- good memories. He wants to build a home with Tubbo that Wilbur can come back to. 

Which is how Tommy winds up standing in front of the cottage at the edge of the woods where Wilbur raised him. Where Phil and Techno sort of raised him. 

Tubbo stays silent beside him, hand clasped with his as Tommy slowly processes everything he’s seeing. There’s less trauma here than the other places they could have gone, but there are still things Tommy hasn’t dealt with yet. Still hurts that linger like thorns beneath his skin, pressing but never quite breaking through it. 

“This is where I grew up,” Tommy says, even though he knows Tubbo already knows.

The yard is overgrown, grass and ferns brushing up around Tommy’s hips and Tubbo’s torso. All of the flower boxes that Techno used to care for are long dead. There are the rotting remains of the wooden treehouse Phil had built for Wilbur scattered around the base of the large tree at the edge of the clearing. Tommy remembers playing in it with Wilbur, even though Wilbur was so much older than him.

The house is still standing, stone walls in place even as ivy climbs up them, covering windows and swaddling rotting wooden shutters. Large pieces of the roof have visibly caved in. Tommy leads Tubbo up the front steps and onto the porch, the two of them peering in between tendrils of ivy to try and see what’s inside. When this proves fruitless, Tommy reaches down to twist the doorknob.

The door creaks open on rusty hinges without him having to turn the knob, meaning someone else has been here since he and Wilbur left. He distinctly remembers Wilbur locking it behind them. Tommy had wanted to leave it unlocked in case Phil or Techno came back home, but Wilbur insisted they had a key. They’d been gone long enough that Tommy couldn’t remember if they did.

Judging from the fact that the door is open, they either  _ did  _ have a key, or someone broke in.

The floorboards are rotted, crumbling down in certain places where the crawlspace under the house is. A vast majority of the support beams are still steady, though Tommy doubts their integrity as he stares up at them. Little bits of sunlight peek in through the few holes that have been either chewed or rotted into the second floor. Tommy doesn’t even bring them toward the stairs that will lead to his and Wilbur’s old rooms.

“Are you…” Tubbo trails off, peering around him to look at the little hall that leads into the back of the cottage. Phil and Techno’s rooms were back there. “Do you want to rebuild it?”

This place is familiar to Tommy, even if it lacks the warmth that used to make it home. He hates everything about it, but at the same time, he feels like this is where he needs to be. He wants to fix it.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

Down the little path that leads to the clearing that is their front yard, there’s a plains biome. There’s a village about a two hours walk away- it’s actually the village where Phil found him. Tommy wonders if it’s still there. He decides not to think too deeply about it, though, and instead cuts down trees from the edge of the plain with Tubbo. 

They put the treehouse back together first, and that is where they sleep for a solid week as they tear out and replace anything that needs replacing. Tommy kind of wants to keep as much of the original place as they can, but there’s not much that can be salvaged after so many years of disuse. The fireplace remains, sturdily constructed from stone and clay. Tommy’s glad it gets to stay.

_ (Wilbur had taught him to braid Techno’s hair in front of the fireplace while Phil watched. They’d felt like a family, then.) _

A small fox moves into the hollow of one of the neighboring trees, hopping around Tubbo’s legs while they work. He names it Squeaks- but spelled right this time. Tommy makes fun of him the whole time in an effort to ignore the way The Boys keep trying to soothe the ever-present ache in his chest as they clean the rooms. 

Phil’s room is covered in old, water-rotted sketches of the places he and Techno went. There are a few books tucked into the shelves built into the wall, but not many. The clothes in the closet are moth-eaten. Tommy doesn’t bother looking at the small box that he knows is full of polaroids. He’d spent way too long looking through it while he waited years for Phil to come back.

The first night he and Tubbo sleep in the freshly finished living room, Tommy dreams that he is trapped. Locked amidst obsidian walls and lava, a voice Tommy doesn’t want to remember hisses just behind his shoulders, promising him friendship and old times. He screams for Phil, but Phil doesn’t come. Phil has replaced him.

The Boys promise that this isn’t a memory, just a whisper from another timeline, but Tommy doesn’t go to sleep for days afterward. He works until his hands bleed, and then he keeps working. 

Tubbo makes up for Tommy’s sudden silence by being loud, listing off the recipe to make nukes for all the world to hear, and he only gets louder when he finally makes Tommy laugh. They fix up the kitchen together, and slowly, they work through their own dreams.

They’re stripping the decaying wallpaper from Techno’s room when Tommy finally, quietly, tells Tubbo about what he’s remembered. It’s mostly from his time in exile, his time with Dream, and Tubbo tells him about his time with Schlatt in return. They compare scars, and they laugh so they don’t cry, and they allow themselves to be kids. 

The downstairs is almost done, all that’s left to fix are the stairs themselves, when they get a visitor. The seasons are just starting to change when Eret of all people emerges from between the trees on their little path, and Tubbo’s shout of excitement is shrill as he tumbles down the porch and directly into the other God’s arms.

“Clara told me where to find you,” Eret explains when they look up to meet Tommy’s eyes. “I hope that’s alright. If not, I can head off again.”

Tommy had always had an inkling Eret was a God -the white, glowing eyes and impressive height had been a pretty dead giveaway- but he’d never been able to figure out what they were the God of. Now, though, it’s as if he’s always known. Tubbo peers at him over his shoulder, eyes excited, and who is Tommy to tell him no?

“It’s going to rain soon,” Tommy says instead of ‘yes’. “You should probably come inside.”

Tubbo drags Eret up the stairs of their little porch by the hand, giving them a tour of the downstairs and then trying to trick them into climbing the unfinished stairs. Eret raises an eyebrow but does it anyway, making a show of acting surprised when the first step gives out under them and they fall through back to the floor. 

They eat dinner together -Tommy is a phenomenal cook, now- and Eret tells them stories of Dream’s world after they left. It’s with a soft, concerned kind of hesitance that they explain that Dream isn’t really dead, just dispersed. He’s supposed to come back after he’s finally collected every piece of himself, but that will take years. Lifetimes. Eret tells them there isn’t anything to worry about, and though they outwardly brush it off, Tommy’s sure neither of them will feel completely secure.

“You’re both Gods, now,” Eret tells them, legs crossed as they fiddle with their crown. Tommy’s crown has been on the counter in the kitchen for weeks. “You don’t have to worry about him trying to kill you anymore. He literally can’t.”

Eret leaves not long after, and it’s just the two of them in the house again. Autumn is moving in slowly, plucking the leaves one-by-one from the trees and leaving them in piles on the ground. Tubbo’s little fox gets fluffier by the day, and she now has a permanent bed in the living room by the almost eternally lit fireplace. It’s not cold enough to worry about the roof just yet, but they start working on it anyway.

It’s a slow-going process helped along only because Tubbo has always been skilled with building houses. Tommy has the barest understanding of what goes into a sturdy home, so he’s grateful he’ll be sharing this one with Tubbo. They’re fixing up Tommy’s old room, now, and this time there will be two beds in here. 

Wilbur’s room is fixed last. He still isn’t back yet, but Tommy has his guitar, so by all means, he has to come back eventually. The walls in Wilbur’s room have to be replaced, and the window has long since shattered, and it doesn’t really feel like his brother anymore.

Tommy saves the sheets upon sheets of music. The pages are yellowed with age, some unrecognizable with water damage, but he saves them anyway. He teaches himself to play Wilbur’s guitar. Squeaks quite likes it, and Tubbo sings softly with him in the evening and early morning, though they both make sure to be extra loud in the afternoons.

The house, halfway through autumn, is finished. It likely would have been done earlier, but neither one of them was really rushing. All they had to do was beat out the snow, and the first one was still a month away. They build new flower boxes for the windows and fashion a swing for the front porch. Tommy sections off an area of the yard to serve as a garden when spring finally blows in.

A week after it’s finally finished, and the two of them have moved into their room upstairs, Tommy wakes up in tears yet again. The Boys do their best to soothe him, though they quickly devolve into an argument amongst themselves, and Tommy is left with his own thoughts as he promptly shuts the little door in his head that he hides The Boys behind. His thoughts are his own, and they are lonely.

He makes breakfast early, gets started on building earlier. He’s not very good, though, and instead, he just ends up splintering it between his hands. Tommy’s nearly in tears again when the leaves start crunching under heavy footfalls on the path.

“Tommy?” Sam asks when he looks up, head tilted. “Eret said I could find you guys here. Are- are you okay? Do you need help?”

Sam helps him build the delicate thing, stopping only briefly to greet Tubbo. Tommy sits in silence as Tubbo and Sam talk about the new machines they could build together while their diligent hands construct what his own had been trembling too terribly to create.

By noon, the false wall is in place. Phil and Techno’s old rooms stay out of sight and out of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL i just,, want them to heal,,,, these boys have been through so much,,,,
> 
> CAN YOU TELL I WAS WRITING THIS DURING TOMMY'S STREAM LAST WEEK?? CAN YOU TELL I TOOK A FAT BREAK?? I AM NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO WHATEVER HE'S GOING TO BE LIKE TOMORROW. TODAY I GUESS. IDK DUDES BUT IM BIG FUCKING WORRIED
> 
> side note mans always streams like right when im traveling across the city (i have to do it every sunday) and its like sir pls i am trying to be a functioning member of society could you wait like 30 minutes??


End file.
